Death's Mark
by Memoir's Muse
Summary: Oneshot Harry sees Padfoot during winterbreak, but the meeting is nothing like Harry expected.


Death's Mark

By Memoir's Muse

All characters and settings are © J.K. Rowling, the plot belongs to the author

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Snow blanketed like a pall over the castle in Scotland. The absolute white of the falling frozen water-droplets gave to sight's way only the castle's grey pallour and the black leaf-less trees that comprised a forest nearby. The holiday season that the calendar said was the present, did not feel like it by the inhabitants of the stone structure. The current events dampened even the spirits of the Christmas holiday.

A disease that the muggles, non-magical folk, conquered in the past resurged and was now rampaging its way through muggle hospitals and towns. The virus mutated and the old vaccine did nothing to save them from the microbe's wrath- only time and watchful care would cure a victim.

This had nothing to do with the Magical Community of Britain of course - they were different enough from muggles that they wouldn't have to worry about muggles' diseases. Thus they had nothing to fear when the common British papers began to compare the effects to those of the Black Plague.

That is, until a muggle-born caught it.

The Bridge between non-magical folk and the Wizarding Community that the virus decided to cross was not just a simple muggle-born witch or wizard that could be quarantined easily and have things over and done with. No, it happened to be a student at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Thus, the entire school had to be quarantined - the mail and all other shipments were sent via containers with apparation charms on them. Only time and the careful watch of the resident MediWitch would end the school-wide prison term - and time and isolation was what Hogwarts had plenty of.

The poor 3rd year Ravenclaw witch was utterly embarrassed and ashamed for bringing trouble to her school and wizarding world. While most of the students in the school were in no eminent danger, they were kept there for the benefit of their own families, who might catch this currently incurable virus from them if they were to be carriers. Some weren't happy with the decision made, but alas, that is how things went.

It was on one of those snowy days that a student dared to venture outdoors. A lone student with his owl in tow, left the warmth of the school for the simple joy of watching his owl fly.

And fly it did.

The wizard-in-training had forgotten since the previous year how well his bird blended into the absolute white of a snowy sky. He searched the snowy horizon for a glimpse that would distinguish his lost pet. His green eyes found instead something black rather than white.

"Padfoot!" The boy cried out joyfully, running towards the black dog. The hound seemed shocked to hear its name called and stopped its steady walk towards the castle.

"Oh Padfoot - it's so good to see you again!" the black-haired boy said as he wrapped his arms around the shaggy black hound's form. The hound tensed at the second calling of its name. The boy noticed the hound's reaction and backed off a bit, a questioning look to his eyes.

"You want me to start calling you Snuffles again," He started, scratching behind the hound's ear with his left hand, "is that what it is-"

The boy stopped speaking, as the hound in the young wizard's arms started to growl, its eyes turning noticeably red.

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Whispers.

Always whispers.

Good, bad, indifferent, angry, suspicious, awed, joyous, inspired, and frightened - he was used to them all and more.

And now he was getting them again. This time it wasn't any of his actions, or his scar from the killing curse, or his past. This time it was the bandaged left arm that he carried.

"He couldn't have turned! He just c-couldn't! ... could he?"

"...You know, I hear that IT goes on the inside of the arm. I wonder if it hurts any less after it's been there for a while..."

"I don't think he was initiated - I would have heard from my great uncle by now if he was..."

The whispers buzzed through out the dinning hall. Rumours started adding up, multiplying, dividing - a regular mathematics class for gossips. While one didn't have to be a gossip to hear or add to the rumours, there were only a few who had that part of the act down to an art.

"Well, well, Potter." Draco Malfoy began as he approached his yearmate, spitting out the last word. "It seems that we've been busy over the holiday. Heh, it seems that even the Gryffindor Golden Boy isn't so golden after all. How did the meeting go? Did you talk to him in parseltongue the whole time, or did you let the others know what you were saying?" The Malfoys' sneer that must have been patented covered his lips the entire time. Draco was much too enjoying the prospect of getting to see his rival squirm again while knowing that all of those around him were sopping up the verbal duel, wanting to add their own two knuts to the gossip's' arithmetic. After all, if Draco Malfoy confirmed it, then it must be true...

"Malfoy, I'm not in the mood. Just let me pass."

"Don't want to talk about the whole ceremony then, eh, Potter? Were all of them there, or only a few?"

The only response that the platinum blond received was a glare through round glasses worthy of match to the Malfoy sneer.

"Well," Malfoy flippantly responded as Potter started to walk away, "I suppose that even a Gryffindor with all of the vaunted Gryffindor courage can be afraid of death and help the Dark Lord." The blond by said, ending with a shrug.

"A-Afraid of Death!" Harry sputtered incredulously at Draco's words, turning around to face the other boy again. "I wasn't afraid of a magical death as a child," He burst out, pointing to his scar, "or here at Hogwarts by the hand of your precious Dark Lord. Why would I be scared of one now!"

"Well, then, I'd say that you're so jealous of everyone paying attention to that Mudblood Ravenclaw's death, that you've resorted to theatrics to get your precious attention back." A slight point towards the bandage and the implications were all understood.

By now, Harry was so enraged by everyone swearing up and down that his bandaged arm concealed the Dark Mark, he didn't care that Madam Pomfrey directly told him not to take the bandage off. PARTICULARLY in front of other students, and most definitely not in the Great Hall, where he was having his argument right now.

"Theatrics? You think this is all theatrics?" Harry's voice suddenly turned serious, scaring those around the two more than his yelling had. "Then tell me how theatrical this appears to be!" Harry had unwrapped his bandages and held his arm in front of Draco's face so that he could see clearly what the need for the bandages was.

There were markings on his arm - Bite marks - and although Potter's skin was pale to begin with, the skin under and around the markings was particularly pallid, unearthly pale. The rage that he was in right now didn't help as his blood was pumping quickly. One could see the blood flowing through his arm, and how his veins had re-grown around the bite marks. The skin touched by the marks was dead - from one side of his arm to the other, completely dead. Nothing - no magical anything - could do that, or change it back. Harry had his own personal Death Mark for the rest of his life. His second one - even ironically placed where the Dark Mark was said to be burned into the skin.

"Next time you see a Grim walking around, go up and pet it. Then tell me if I'm afraid of Death or not."


End file.
